


Past The Hallowed And The Horror

by ship_to_wreck



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Comfort/Angst, F/M, Post 5x05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-07
Updated: 2015-08-07
Packaged: 2018-04-13 12:51:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4522752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ship_to_wreck/pseuds/ship_to_wreck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Finally, it made sense. This wasn’t a dream. This was Stiles’ memory. This was what had happened to Stiles that night—the night he had hurt his shoulder. And now Lydia was experiencing it first-hand.</p><p> </p><p>(Or: Lydia and Stiles talk about Donovan)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Past The Hallowed And The Horror

**Author's Note:**

> So, after 5x06 aired and it was clear that Lydia can now somewhat see (hallucinate?? experience??) people’s memories, this idea popped up in my head and I just had to write it. This was very emotional to write, to be quite honest, but well I live for the pain :))
> 
> A huge thank you to the lovely Jeneane (@xjpoox on tumblr) for betaing this for me and for writing a lovely review that made me smile for at least five minutes straight <3 
> 
> I'm @sofuckingobsessed on tumblr, btw. Feel free to fangirl over Stydia with me anytime you want. Thank you for reading, and I hope you guys like it :)

  
  
  


If Lydia didn’t know better, she would have mistaken it for a dream. Truth be said, she _did_ think it was a dream for a split second, until she saw who was there with her.

Lydia was used to having voices in her head that weren’t hers and feeling things that were induced by other people’s emotions. Or at least she was _trying_ to get accustomed to all that and, frankly, she had been succeeding. Problem was that lately even some of her _memories_ didn’t belong to her. _That_ was new, and that was terrifying.

It had made her believe that the Dread Doctors had done something to her, which had disturbed her peace for several days, until she figured that what she had seen was just a figment of her imagination—and undoubtedly someone else’s reality. She had been trying to find out whom that memory belonged to for the past four days, only her brain was too tired and her body was still recovering from her near-death experience. Between almost dying, being forced to re-live the memory of her grandmother bleeding out in a bathroom in Eichen House, having to deal with the inconsistency of her powers and trying to figure out what was happening to her and her friends, Lydia felt suffocated. Things had been rough and they only intended to get worse.

The memory that came to haunt her tonight did a great job of proving her point.

She was running. She wasn’t sure _what_ she was running from but she was somewhat aware that _something_ was chasing her. Her heart was hammering against her ribs, making it hard for her to breathe. The sound of her feet against the floor was nothing like the sound her heels made when she walked down the school hallway, and it was the first thing that made her notice that maybe it wasn’t a dream and maybe the person being chased wasn’t really her.

Acknowledging that, however, didn’t make her panic subside. Lydia could still hear footsteps following her, and her first instinct was to run to the library. Students could only get in with a keycard, since the library was open twenty four hours a day. She pulled her keycard (it _wasn’t_ hers, but she couldn’t worry about it right now) and unlocked the door, pushing it open and running inside.

Lydia decided to hide behind one of the bookshelves, figuring it was her only chance to get out of this situation unscathed. She tried to slow her breathing and the frantic beating of her heart in case the _thing_ chasing her had super hearing.

The doors were pushed open less than a minute later and Donovan (she knew it was his name, although she had never really seen him before) came in. He was looking for her. No—he was looking for _him_.

He was looking for Stiles.

Finally, it made sense. This was Stiles’ memory. This was what had happened to Stiles that night—the night he had hurt his shoulder. Lydia had been in the hospital that night, heavily sedated. The pain in her waist had been so strong—the sudden shock of agony in her shoulder ripping a shout from her throat—that she had asked Melissa to do whatever she could to make it stop. Now she wondered if part of her pain had been Stiles’. She wondered if she had _felt_ that something was wrong with him somehow.

Donovan was speaking. Lydia could hear hatred in his voice, could see rage in the way he was moving—slowly, like he was about to jump at her throat at any minute. Her breathing was labored as she heard the words he so carelessly spat, dragging his feet up the stairs, heading to the second floor. Relief washed over her and she moved a little, still keeping her body between two shelves, making sure it was safe to run out of the library and ask for help.

Then hands were grasping at her throat, strangling her. She struggled in the grip of her attacker and desperately tried to free herself. In her mind, Stiles’ voice kept repeating: _I’m going to die. I’m going to die. I’m going to die. I’m going to die…_

Everything that happened after that was a blur. She couldn’t bring herself to remember how she had escaped his iron grip. She had climbed up something but she couldn’t assimilate where she was. All she knew was that Donovan had caught her leg and was yanking her down, his hot breath warming the fabric of her jeans.

Next thing she knew Donovan was no longer holding her and everything was quiet. A quick look towards him told her that a metal bar had cut right through his chest. There was blood coming out of his mouth and pouring from his fresh wound. It was over. Donovan was dead.

When Lydia woke up she all but screamed, gasping for air. Her hands clutched the lilac sheets on her bed with such force her knuckles turned white. There was sweat pooling on her forehead and under her arms and she felt too weak, like her body was boneless. She wanted to cry but she didn’t have the strength. She was consumed by a sudden, irrational need to see Stiles, but it was half past three in the morning and she was aware that she couldn’t just show up at his door at such late hours. Not anymore.

She forced herself to get up and headed down the stairs to her kitchen. She needed a glass of water and one of her mother’s sleeping pills if she wanted to go back to sleep tonight. As she dragged her feet around her house she concluded two things:

One: Her powers were expanding and getting a little out of control.

Two: She had—no _needed_ —to talk to Stiles as soon as possible.

 

* * *

 

Stiles had missed school again. It was the third time that week. According to Scott, Stiles wasn’t feeling well. When Lydia pressed him to reveal more information, he had told her about Stiles’ periodical anxiety attacks and palpable stress, which had only got worse in the past few days. Lydia had felt her chest tighten at his words. Of course Stiles wasn’t handling that well. Nobody would. And the fact that she was the only one who _knew_ made her feel somewhat responsible for him. If she didn’t look after him, who would?

“You coming to my house after school?” Scott asked her after lunch as she stopped by her locker to fetch the books she would need for her afternoon classes. “We plan on reading the rest of the book.”

A cold chill traveled up Lydia’s spine. That goddamn book was only making everything worse. She wanted to set it on fire and watch it burn and turn to ashes before her eyes. She was done with all this.

“I thought you said we shouldn’t have read it in the first place,” she reminded him, managing to sound casual. When she blinked, the image of her grandmother in that bloody bathtub flashed behind her eyelids and she gulped a breath. She was _fine_. Everything was fine.

“Yeah, but we did,” Scott pinched the bridge of his nose. “So maybe we should finish it. Maybe it’ll give us some answers once we’ve read everything.”

Lydia doubted it. If anything they would only have more questions. “Is Stiles going to be there?” she asked, not even bothering to mask her concern. She knew Scott could probably smell it on her anyway. Hiding things was of no use when two of your friends had super senses.

“Yeah, he told me he is coming.” Scott paused and studied her face for a brief moment. “You’ve noticed something off about him too, haven’t you?”

Lydia looked away from him, not daring to hold his gaze. Her hands were shaking slightly and she felt weak at the knees. “You mean besides the fact that he clearly isn’t getting much sleep lately and has been uncharacteristically quiet?” Lydia closed her locker, turning to Scott. “Maybe,” she replied, smoothing her skirt.

Scott let out a sad sigh. “He’s been pushing me away, but _you_ should talk to him. Maybe he’ll listen to you and open up.”

Lydia sucked in a breath. Stiles had been pushing Scott away because he was scared. He was suffering in silence, letting his guilt gnaw at his bones. She felt her chest tighten and gripped the straps of her purse tighter. “I can try.” Scott didn’t need to know it had been her plan all along.

As they started to walk towards their AP Biology class, Lydia’s head spun and she lost balance, leaning into Scott for support. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders to steady her, concern painting his features.

“Lydia, are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she said, forcing her legs to sustain her weight and stop shaking.

“What happened? Was it another memory surfacing?” His hold around her shoulders was reassuring and protective.

“No. I just…” She paused, moistening her lips. “I don’t know what it was. But I’m fine.” She had a vague idea of what that might have been, but she didn’t want to dwell too deep into it. “Let’s go to class.”

By the looks of it, that day was going to be long.

 

* * *

 

“Hey, why are you hiding in here?” Lydia asked Stiles as she entered the McCall’s kitchen.

Everyone was gathered in the living room, like the day before, reading the book. Stiles had excused himself about fifteen minutes ago and hadn’t returned. The rest of the pack had decided to take a break and were now engrossed in a random conversation that Lydia wasn’t interested in. So she had decided to talk to him.

He looked up from his cup of coffee and met her gaze. His amber eyes were dark in the dim light of the kitchen. “Got tired of reading that amazing sci-fi _classic_ and decided that if I wanted to stay awake for another hour I should probably intoxicate myself with caffeine,” he replied, lifting his cup just slightly. “You?”

Lydia offered him a small smile, sitting on the chair before him and pouring herself some coffee. “Same.” She lifted the cup to her lips and took a sip. “Are you feeling better?” At his questioning glare she elaborated, “Scott told me you missed class because, again, you weren’t feeling well.”

Lydia could almost _see_ his brain registering his own lie, a flicker of recognition crossing his eyes. “Oh, yeah, yeah. I’m fine. I guess I just caught a cold.”

Lydia was about to say something when Malia entered the kitchen, a soft smile on her lips as she approached Stiles, resting a hand on his arm. “What are you guys doing here?”

“Drinking coffee,” Stiles replied, offering her a smile. “Want some?”

“Caffeine doesn’t have any effect on me, but yeah, why not?” she said, taking a seat beside Lydia. “Oh, by the way, what did you do to your shoulder?”

Lydia froze and so did Stiles. Her hand holding her cup of coffee mid-air and her eyes fixated on an invisible spot behind Stiles. She was one hundred percent sure Malia could hear her pulse racing, but she couldn’t control it. She was nervous and on edge and she could not hide it this time. Not when the subject was so serious and dark. Not when it involved Stiles.

“Uh, what?” Stiles asked with feigned confusion. Lydia could see fear rising in his eyes, anxiety building up inside her at how uneasy and scared he was.

“I can smell the blood,” Malia answered far too casually for the gravity of the situation. Not that she _knew_ what the situation was. “What happened?”

Lydia figured she was supposed to look surprised at Malia’s revelation. Stiles had told her he had a bad elbow; _that_ was all Lydia technically knew. She tilted her head to one side and narrowed her eyes at him, pressing her tongue against the inside of her cheek.

He met her gaze briefly before returning his attention to Malia, “The jeep died on me again. I went to check the engine, the hood fell on it.”

Malia’s eyebrows knitted together and she shot a quick glance in Lydia’s direction, but the Banshee didn’t dare to meet her eyes. She didn’t trust herself at the moment.

Stiles changed the topic of the conversation to Malia’s memory of the accident, and Lydia took the opportunity to sneak out of the kitchen. She walked through the living room, ignoring everyone’s eyes on her, only stopping when she reached the porch. She needed some air.

And she needed that stupid meeting to be over so she could focus on more important things.

 

* * *

 

It was raining lightly. Droplets of rain hit the windshield rhythmically as Lydia drove behind Stiles, watching as the jeep sped up and slowed down from time to time, never going at a steady speed for too long.

She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, gripping the steering wheel tighter, and released a concerned sigh. Lydia was feeling anxious again. Not the natural anxiety that was part of her these days due to the fact that there were supernatural doctors changing people’s genes and turning them into killing machines. _This_ was different. Lydia was starting to think half of that anxiety was Stiles’. She had been feeling weird all day. And, all things considered, it only made sense.

Stiles stayed in the jeep for a whole two minutes after he pulled into his driveway and killed the engine. When he finally got out of the car, he sent a quick look in Lydia’s direction and turned to his house, one hand clasped around his shoulder.

Lydia followed him to the porch, silently. Neither of them spoke a single word to each other as they walked into the Stilinski’s living room and climbed up the stairs, heading to his bedroom. Only when they stepped inside his room did Stiles open his mouth.

“You didn’t have to follow me home, Lydia.” His voice was strained and low, like it had been all day.

Lydia fiddled with the straps of her purse. “I just wanted to make sure you got in okay.”

Stiles sat down on the edge of his bed, removing his hoodie and tossing it away. He winced again and Lydia felt yet another pang of something close to pain course through her.

“I already said I’m fine,” said Stiles, his eyes focused on the wood floor of his room.

“Yeah, well, I don’t believe you,” Lydia commented nonchalantly.

Stiles sighed. Ran a hand through his hair. “You also didn’t have to follow me into my room.”

Lydia couldn’t tell if that was a poor attempt at a joke or if he was trying to send her away so he could shrink into himself again like he had done that morning. She wouldn’t let it happen.

She let go of the straps of her purse and folded her arms, one eyebrow lifted. “Alright, enough of this. We both know I’m here because we need to talk.”

Stiles looked at her out of the corner of his eyes, like a child afraid of being told off. “About what?”

Lydia closed her eyes briefly, pressing her lips together. It was going to be harder than she’d expected. Stiles used to wear his heart on his sleeve, but over the past few months he had added stones around himself and unconsciously built ramparts. But he had broken through Lydia’s walls with relative ease using nothing but gentle words and light touches. Now she would do the same for him.

“I can _feel_ it, Stiles,” she started, eyes fixated on his profile. “An agonizing feeling in my chest, sometimes accompanied by a pang of pain. It comes and goes, doesn’t last long, but it’s been there all day.”

She saw Stiles’ body tense up, his jaw clenching and his hands balling into a fist. He dared to look at her for the first time since they had left Scott’s house.

“This is new,” he said. His voice was too neutral to sound like Stiles. Stiles wasn’t emotionless. Stiles wasn’t impassive. “You better talk to Deaton about it. When he comes back, that is. He’ll probably know how to help.”

Lydia clenched her jaw, feeling her heart squeeze in her chest. He was so broken. She could almost see the cracks in his skin. She was afraid that if she touched him he would fall to pieces in her hands.

“Stiles,” she insisted, voice firm, “you’re missing the point. What I mean is that I know there’s something wrong with _you_. You lied to me. _Twice_. You’re keeping something from me and I’m not leaving until you tell me what it is.”

“Lydia, why do you care?” He spat. His words were sharp like blades and they cut right through Lydia’s chest, leaving yet another scar on her stomach. She licked her lips, swallowing hard.

Her voice was slightly demanding when she replied, “I care because you’ve always cared. You’ve always listened to me. I’d like to do the same for you now, if you let me.”

The words hung in the air between them. It felt as though her voice had grown invisible hands that curled around Stiles’ shoulders, clasping onto him, demanding attention. Stiles could never deny Lydia what she wanted.

He breathed; his breath coming out short and shallow. A lump settled in his throat and he swallowed hard, trying to get rid of it. “This is not your burden to carry. This is nobody’s burden but mine.”

Lydia felt the familiar pressure building up behind her eyelids, which always preceded the tears, as well as a salty taste on her tongue. She took a sharp intake of breath and walked over to him, sliding her purse off her shoulder and setting it on his bedside table. She sat beside him and hesitantly placed a hand over his, squeezing it slightly.

“Stiles, you don’t have to do this alone,” she reassured him. He swallowed audibly but didn’t speak. Lydia decided to try a different approach.

She slowly lifted a hand and let her fingertips brush his shoulder where she knew the wound was. Stiles flinched and Lydia wasn’t sure whether it was in pain or because of her touch.

“Can I see it?” she asked quietly, taking her hand off his shoulder. He answered with a nod of the head.

Lydia removed her boots and positioned herself behind him, tucking legs beneath her body. She tried not to think that it had been forever since the last time she had done it; taken off her shoes and climbed onto his bed like it was the most natural thing in the world. Her heart picked up speed and she mentally cursed herself because this wasn’t about her or those feelings that had been consuming her for a little over a year now. This was about Stiles.

Lydia’s fingers curled around the hem of his T-shirt and gingerly pulled it up, her eyes tracing invisible lines connecting the several moles on his back. It was like a map of every inch of skin she suddenly wanted to put her lips to, caressing him until all the pain he was feeling died in her kisses.

Then she saw it: the open wound on his shoulder. It was round; an imperfect circle. The skin had been peeled off, exposing the blood-red tissue under it. The area around the injury was swollen, his skin a mixture of purple and green from when his attacker had bruised him. Fresh tears surfaced in her eyes and Lydia furiously blinked them away, feeling her chest constrict with repressed emotions.

“Have you—” Her voice broke at the end and Lydia cleared her throat to make it sound stronger. One hand came to his shoulder whilst the other gripped the hem of her dress with all her might. “Have you properly cleaned it up?”

“I washed it in the shower.”

Lydia looked away from his wound. More tears gathered in her eyes. “Stiles, you can get an infection. And, believe me, that’s not something you want to experience.” She paused. “I’ll go get the first aid kit and I’ll be right back.”

Lydia made to get up, but Stiles’ hand landed on her arm, holding her in place. It was silent for a moment, then:

“Do you _really_ want me to tell you how I got this?” His voice was small and strangled, as if speaking required too much effort.  His body was visibly shaking with every intake of breath.

Lydia sucked in a breath and held it, her whole body suddenly becoming cold and numb. His words had hurt her ears and now bounced off the walls of her skull, making her head begin to throb. She pressed a hand against his back, stroking it gently.

“I know.” Her voice was equally quiet, and she was sure his chest was aching just as much as her own.

Stiles looked at her over his shoulder. There were tears in his eyes and confusion on his face. Lydia braced herself for what was about to come.

“I saw it,” she started, searching her brain for the right words. “I didn’t mean to, and I actually don’t know how or why it happened but… I saw your memory. In a dream.” When he didn’t move, she added, “I’m sorry, Stiles.”

He averted his eyes from her face, facing the floor again. “I killed him,” he said, his voice black like oil, tainting every corner of his being. “God, Scott will never forgive me. I’ll never forgive myself.”

Lydia breathed in and out, in and out, her hand still drawing circles on his back. Her touch was light like feathers but she hoped he was able to feel it all the way through his heart. Maybe, if she reached deep enough she would be able to attenuate his pain. To tell him he was not a murderer. To tell him that, back in a time where a vermin had possessed her body and used it for weeks on end to serve his own devilish purposes, she wouldn’t have measured her actions to get rid of it.

She would have done _anything_ to take the devil out of her mind, to unlatch him from her bones, to free herself from the nightmare he had turned her life into. The same way that, right now, she would do anything to free Stiles from the guilt that had sneaked into his soul like venom, threatening to take his innocence away. Lydia had saved him from a demon once, she could do it again.

“I forgive you,” she finally spoke, voice controlled. “It was self-defense .You didn’t mean to hurt him. You were protecting yourself. He could’ve killed you. I _was there_ , Stiles. It wasn’t your fault.”

Stiles’ body shuddered under Lydia’s touch, his fists clenching. “It doesn’t change what I did!” He punched his own thighs, _hard_. “It doesn’t justify it!”

“It doesn’t define who you are, either!” Lydia urged, her voice betraying her and coming out coated in too many emotions. Stiles stayed still and quiet, as if he was trying to disappear into himself.

Lydia shifted on the bed, sitting beside him. With shaky hands she cupped his face, silently pleading him to look at her. He did. Watery eyes held her gaze and she had to remind herself how to speak.

“Stiles, you are still yourself. If you weren’t you wouldn’t care. You wouldn’t be so worried. You wouldn’t regret it. One mistake doesn’t define you. And you don’t have to go through this alone.” She moistened her lips. Swallowed heavily. “I’m right here, with you.”

As a lonely tear slipped down his cheek, Lydia let all her guards down and wrapped her arms around him. Stiles rested his head on her chest, his body completely still in her arms. Hot tears leaked from her eyes and she bit her bottom lip so hard it drew blood. Lydia was angry and she was tired and she wanted this everlasting nightmare to end. None of this was fair. It wasn’t fair that they were ripping off parts of themselves to keep others whole. It wasn’t fair that they were killing themselves a little more every day when all they wanted was to _survive_. To survive and to keep others safe.

It wasn’t fair to love him this much and watch him lose himself.

Lydia tightened her grip around his fragile body, concentrating hard on him. She felt his heartbeat against her ribs, his hot breath against her skin. She focused so hard that, at some point, she _felt_ _him_. She felt his pain in her veins, his guilt constricting her chest, his fears closing her throat up. And for a brief moment, there was no Stiles and no Lydia, they were no longer separated beings; just a mass of broken pieces trying to put each other back together.

Then, all of a sudden, Stiles’ tremors subsided and his heartbeat slowed down, until their steady breathing was the only audible sound in the room. He slid out of her embrace, his brow furrowed when he met her eyes.

“What did you…” he trailed off, probably searching his brain for the right words. “How’d you do that?”

Lydia blinked, confusion painting her features. “How did I do _what_?”

“I don’t know. I _literally_ felt the anxiety being sucked out of me.”

Her breath caught in her throat. “Stiles, this doesn’t make _sense_.”

He shook his head, taking her hand in his. “Lydia, I’m serious. A few weeks ago I had an anxiety attack and hurt my hand. Scott was there so he took the pain from me. What happened here… it was very similar to that. You _definitely_ did something.”

Lydia’s eyebrows knitted together as her brain tried to come up with a rational explanation. Either was Stiles imagining things to make himself feel better and change the topic of the conversation, or…

She thought about what Deaton had said several months ago, about the meaning of anchors and emotional tethers. And she concluded that if she had been able to bring him back from the dead, to keep him anchored to life due to their connection, she might have done something for him now.

The worst part was that it made sense. Worse yet; she _knew_ she was right.

“Tethers,” she blew out, disbelief washing over her. Stiles just stared, but he squeezed her hand slightly. “Seems like I’m still your anchor.”

Something flickered in his eyes, melting the brown into amber. He was looking at her with a mix of surprise and admiration and Lydia sucked her bottom lip into her mouth, her eyes not leaving his. And maybe it was wrong (it _was_ ) but she felt calm, suddenly. All the anxiety and stress that had troubled her the entire day was all but gone.

A thought crossed her mind like a lightning coursing the sky: Maybe, just _maybe_ , he was her anchor, too.

“Oh,” he said, unable to formulate a coherent sentence.

“Yeah,” she agreed, feeling uneasy under his gaze. “I should go get the first aid kit now. We still don’t want you to get an infection.”

She had almost reached the door when Stiles’ voice stopped her in her tracks.

“Thank you, Lyds. For, you know, listening to me and all that.”

“You don’t have to thank me.” It felt wrong even; to hear those words in a situation like this.

“Just doing your anchor duty?” he tried to joke, but Lydia could hear a tinge of sadness in his voice.

“I’m doing it because I _want_ to, Stiles. Because you’re important to me.”

It was quiet for a few heartbeats.

“Oh.” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. Something crossed his face and he smiled thinly. “Got it.”

Lydia offered him a sad smile because no; he did _not_ get it.

“I’ll be right back,” she said, before finally leaving the room.

Once Stiles found himself alone, he covered his face with his hands and let out a long, heavy sigh, feeling his chest tighten once again. Everything that had happened, all the pain Lydia had been through in the past months, was his fault. Donovan wasn’t the first person Stiles had killed. He had killed Aiden. And he had killed Allison. Because of him Lydia had lost her best friend and because of him Lydia was hurting.

It felt like the world was closing in on him and Stiles had no idea what to do. He had opened Pandora’s Box and he didn’t know how to fix it. He didn’t know how to tell her that he still felt like there was a void in his chest and sometimes it seemed that part of him had died along with the Nogitsune. How to tell her that void was only filled when she was with him, her hands in his, her voice in his ears, her body in his arms.

And it was a goddamn _tragedy_ , because he could not let himself be fixed by someone he had broken.

  
  
  



End file.
